Go
by Wilusa
Summary: Duncan MacLeod is forced to cope with very bad news. My take on a familiar theme, strictly an AU.


DISCLAIMER: _Highlander_ and its canon characters are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions; no copyright infringement is intended.

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The dream slipped away from him, slithering back into the dim recesses of his mind. He knew only that it had been a bad one.

He sat up in bed, shivering. The barge was rocking violently; hail beat against the cabin walls, and the wind howled like a banshee.

That would have been enough to wake him. But his sleep-fogged brain gradually registered another sound.

The phone was ringing.

_Now?_ _It's pitch dark - has to be the middle of the night. Why would anyone call now?_

He threw off the bedclothes and stumbled in the direction of that insistent ring. Crossing the cabin during a storm like this was as much a balancing act as staying astride a bucking horse.

_Probably just Methos_, he told himself. _Calling from some damn-fool place like Borneo, too drunk to remember the time difference._

He finally found the receiver. Much as he wanted to believe in the drunken-Methos theory, he heard the anxiety in his voice as he said, "MacLeod."

"_Duncan_ MacLeod?"

"Yes." Recalling where he was, he corrected that to "_Oui_."

"Actually, I'm glad you're an English speaker," the other man told him. His own French accent was barely detectable. "The message I'm supposed to give you won't have to be translated.

"But first I should introduce myself. My name is Pierre Bouchard. I'm a Catholic priest, calling from Saint-Luc's."

"Oh." MacLeod dropped to a sitting position on the floor. And not just because of the motion of the barge.

He knew Saint-Luc's was a hospital.

_Something bad is coming._

"Monsieur MacLeod," the voice on the line continued, "I must ask...are you a relative or friend of a man named Joseph Dawson?"

"Yes." He felt every muscle go taut.

_Nothing can be wrong with Joe. Not now. It's too soon, he's too young!_

He made himself add, "A very close friend."

"I'm afraid I have bad news. There's no easy way to say this. Monsieur Dawson is dead. Killed in an auto accident."

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Time stretched out.

He could have sworn that he wasn't breathing, that his heart had stopped.

_I'm still dreaming. Yes, a bad dream, that's all it is..._

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At last he said in a strangled voice,_ "No."_

It couldn't be true. Only that evening, Joe had been as excited as a kid about the new act performing at Le Blues Bar. The musicians had sounded even better when Joe himself began jamming with them.

"There's some mistake! I saw him - uh, just a couple hours ago, I think. What the hell time is it?" He was shaking now, all but screaming into the phone.

"It's four-thirty a.m."

That stopped him cold.

_Four-thirty._

_So Joe would have closed the bar, headed for home... _

_I didn't have problems on the road, but the storm got worse later on._

He moaned.

"Monsieur MacLeod? Are you all right?" The caller sounded alarmed. "Are you alone there?"

He tried to pull himself together. "I'm okay, Father. Yes, I'm alone, but you don't have to worry about me."

_I can deal with death. I've had lots of experience._

He took a deep breath to steady himself, then asked, "Are you absolutely sure about the identification?"

"Yes, there's no doubt. A middle-aged man with two prosthetic legs. Gray hair, beard..."

"All right," MacLeod whispered. "Th-that's Joe. C-can you tell me how it happened? Did he suffer?"

He couldn't ask the other questions that crowded into his mind. _Was it really an accident, or murder? Did someone kill him to hurt me?_

"It was the storm," the gentle voice explained. "The roads had suddenly gotten icy. Another driver, not your friend, lost control of his vehicle. And that led to a six-car pileup in which three people were killed - including the man who'd caused it.

"I can assure you Monsieur Dawson didn't suffer. He was brought to the hospital, but the medics say he died instantly. Of a broken neck."

MacLeod closed his eyes.

So it wasn't murder. And it had been quick. Merciful - if death in one's early fifties could ever be that.

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_Wait._

_The Watchers once lured Joe to France with a false report that I was dead. What if an enemy's trying to lure __**me**__ somewhere with a false report that __**he's**__ dead?_

_If this guy's on the level, he's going to think I'm crazy. But that can't be helped. I have to be sure._

Aloud, he said, "I'm sorry, Father. But I'm not convinced this isn't a crank call. I'm going to hang up, find the number of Saint-Luc's, and call back. All right?"

He heard a startled intake of breath. But after a moment the voice said quietly, "Of course. That's...a wise precaution. When you reach the main switchboard, ask for Pastoral Services."

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Five minutes later he was back on the line with the same man.

That was when he began to cry.

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When he was calmer, he asked more questions. "Have you called Joe's daughter yet? Or his parish priest?" It seemed odd that it wasn't one of them who'd called _him_.

"No, Monsieur MacLeod. The only name in his wallet, aside from his own, was yours."

"Oh." That came as a surprise.

"There was a note saying you should be called in the event of his death, and you'd know who else ought to be informed." The hospital chaplain paused and cleared his throat. "And whoever spoke to you was to deliver the message."

"Message?" He belatedly remembered Bouchard's opening words. _"I'm glad you're an English speaker. The message I'm supposed to give you won't have to be translated." _

"Yes. The note indicated it was very important that upon Monsieur Dawson's death, you be given this message quickly. It's brief - that's why I'm glad it's in your native tongue. I don't know if it will make sense to you. But if it doesn't, it won't be because some shade of meaning was lost in translation."

MacLeod felt all his nerve endings tingle. "Okay. What is it?"

"A single word. _Go_."

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He sat very still.

Slowly, it sank in.

_Joe...__**knew!**_

_He knew what I planned to do after his death, whenever it might occur. Or rather, after his burial. _

_But how could he? I've never shared that secret with anyone, even Methos or Amanda._

_I guess the answer is obvious. He knew what I'd want to do because he knew __**me**__ so well._

_And he's given me the green light...to do it __**now**__, without waiting for the funeral._

He was suddenly very scared.

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"Monsieur MacLeod? Are you still there?" Bouchard was asking. "Do you understand what your friend meant?"

"Yes. Yes, I do," he replied steadily. "Thank you, Father. And now I hope you have pen and paper handy. There are several more people you should call."

He supplied the names, addresses, and phone numbers of Joe's daughter Amy, his pastor, and even his niece in the United States. "His pastor is the one most likely to know his wishes about funeral arrangements," he concluded.

"Very well, I'll get in touch with them," the chaplain promised. "Will you be coming to the hospital to view the body?"

MacLeod's breath caught in his throat.

After a long pause, he whispered, "No."

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He tried to ignore the swaying of the barge - now, at least, brightly lit - as he gathered the papers he'd need and stuffed some clothing into a duffel bag.

He signed and dated the deed that would transfer ownership of his dojo to its current, worthy manager. That could be dropped in the nearest mailbox. He'd simply abandon the barge.

He'd moved on before, many times, to conceal the fact that he didn't age. But he'd never made a break like this.

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Much as he valued the mission of the Watchers, MacLeod had realized long ago that no Immortal who _knew_ he was being Watched - and didn't count his Watcher as a close friend - could lead even a quasi-normal life.

The odds were overwhelmingly against his lucking out again, finding another friend like Joe.

He'd had no problem with his goldfish-bowl existence while Joe was his Watcher. And he'd planned to endure it as long as Dawson lived, even after his retirement. He'd hoped the day of reckoning could be postponed for a half-century.

But every year, for five years now, he'd secretly prepared a new backup identity. Just in case. Each year he'd obtained a birth certificate for a male child who'd died at birth twenty-eight years before. For the three who'd been American, he'd also gotten U. S. Social Security numbers. And he'd faked backgrounds, complete with education and employment history.

With luck, an identity that gave his initial age as twenty-eight would be good for fifteen years. He knew from experience that neighbors and co-workers who see a person every day seldom notice his aging - or, within reason, his _not_ aging.

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Now his hands shook as he held the forged passport he'd actually use_._

_This would be a damn sight easier if I could change my appearance. _

He envied Methos the fair complexion that permitted him to change hair color - and, with contacts, eye color - at will. His own olive skin made dark hair and eyes a necessity. It ruled out a number of nationalities, too, no matter how flawlessly he spoke the languages.

So he'd be heading back to America - to Florida, where he'd never lived before. A small town, he'd decided, inland. He'd seek a position as a teacher and athletic coach.

When the identity was well established he'd have more options. A few years down the road, if he was finding his life too tame, he'd join the Peace Corps. Duncan MacLeod had never spent much time in Africa.

He'd e-mailed Methos and Amanda, but only to break the news of Joe's death. After he was settled, he'd let them know where he was...somehow. He wouldn't trust e-mail, or the telephone.

But he'd never see Amanda again. The risk would be too great - she had an assigned Watcher. And he wouldn't get together with Methos until "Adam Pierson," supposed-mortal friend of Duncan MacLeod, was long forgotten.

He'd go to great lengths to avoid other Immortals. If he was forced to fight and kill, his opponent's Watcher would be sure to recognize him. Then he'd have to lose the Watcher _and_ start over with a new identity.

_I'll keep my own Chronicle,_ he vowed_. Like Methos_.

Of course, there was no guarantee that anyone else would ever read either of them.

_This isn't so different from what I've done a dozen times before._

But he knew it was.

Always before, his door had been open to at least a few other Immortals.

And always before, in all times and corners of the world, he had been Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.

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The phone rang again as he was about to leave.

He glanced at his watch. Seven a.m.

That would be Amy.

_She'll be broken up, need a shoulder to cry on._

_But my only hope of escaping the Watchers is to move quickly - get out of here before anyone guesses I'd do such a thing. Joe knew that._

He wavered.

_**Joe told me to go.**_

For once in his life, loyal, conscientious Duncan MacLeod ignored a ringing phone.

He slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, left the cabin - unlocked - and made his way down the gangplank. Its glaze of ice prompted a vicious kick.

_I'll miss you, Joe, as long as I live. _

_But I'm glad you understood what I have to do. Thanks for letting me know you approved. In death, you gave me a priceless gift._

Duncan MacLeod turned for a last, lingering look at the barge. He fought back the tears that stung his eyes.

Then a man named David Carlino strode briskly away.

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The End


End file.
